What Dreams May Come
by laureleaf
Summary: Sherlock never sleeps unless he absolutely has to. Warnings for mild language, drug use, bullying, and (apparent) character death.


**Warnings:** Mild language, bullying, drug use, (apparent) major character death, and the like.

**A/N****: **Just an idea I had one sleepless night. It's also my first published fanfic :)

**Disclaimer:** _Sherlock_ belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. A tip of the hat to ACD, and many thanks to one beth193 on deviantart for the title picture.

**Dedication: **I'd like to acknowledge star-eye for her edits, comments, support, inspiration. Thank you!

* * *

Sherlock never slept if he could help it. When asked, he'd claim it was "boring" or "only needed for transport". Both were valid reasons, of course. Sleeping wasted valuable time. But it wasn't the truth. No one, not Mycroft with his snooping spying ways, or John, forever awakening the emotions a sociopath wasn't supposed to have, knew the truth.

John would understand, if he told him, he knew. John had problems sleeping for the same reason.

But Sherlock doesn't tell, because it is too painful. And unnecessary. He had found the solution (he _always_ finds the solution eventually) to his … problem: if he didn't sleep until he was completely, bone-crushingly, mind-numbingly _exhausted_, he didn't dream. And if he didn't dream, he couldn't have nightmares. Problem solved. Sort of.

They wouldn't be so bad if they weren't true. He had been eventually able to reason the fear out of his mind during the Baskerville case because he knew it couldn't be real. But you can't reason the fear out of your own, very real, past.

_His father looms over him. It _always_ starts with his father. "Why are you crying, weakling?" he mocks. "Shameful, a Holmes who can't control himself. A _sentimental_ fool. Worse than an infant. Pathetic. Idiot. Now _Mycroft_, now _there_ is a _real_ Holmes. Something to be proud of," He says, wrapping his arms proudly around his 'perfect' boy. "Get out of my sight, you miserable thing." Sherlock runs… _

…_straight into a waiting fist. He falls, only to scramble to his feet, his own fists raised bravely. "What? Freak's gonna fight me! What a joke! What's he gonna do, the skinny shrimp, 'think' me to death?" The muscle-bound jock laughs, casually knocking Sherlock down again. His head hits the pavement, _hard_. "Weirdo has no mummy. Weirdo has no friends. Weirdo makes the teachers angry," the schoolboys chant, kicking him around their circle like a ball. Sherlock curls in on himself, trying to protect the organs he knows that the other boys don't even realize exist. Pain. He can deal with pain. He curls up tighter, trying to ignore the blood pooling around him. Blood. So much blood. Trying not to think of the verbal abuse, worse in many ways, that he'll get when (if) he gets home. He wishes it would stop. He wants it to stop._

_He needs it to stop. He needs to stop _thinking_. All the time, a million questions, answers, deductions, all whirling and fighting for attention in his head. It's exhausting. It must be nice to be _normal. _He spits out the word in his head. _Normal_. What _do_ normal people do? Drugs. An unbidden voice in his head. He follows the advice. After all, his brain is _never_ wrong. _

_It's ridiculously easy to make cocaine. He flits around his laboratory, perfectly happy among his glassware and chemicals. He likes this part of the nightmare. Until the jars of livers and eyeballs in formaldehyde become the heads of the people he cares about but pretends he doesn't. Mrs. Hudson, with her I'm-not-your-landlady look. Lestrade, face forever fixed in his what-on-_earth_-have-you-done-_now_-Sherlock expression. Molly, a picture of unexpected and complete betrayal. John, just … dead. No emotion, no expression. Which is much, much, worse than any other expression that he could possibly make. The heads begin to move, Mycroft picking up the jars, stacking them this way and that. "Stop it!" Sherlock yells but Mycroft just titters and keeps playing. Donovan storms in. "Freak. Look what you've done. Murderer. Psychopath." "Know-it-all. Heartless. Idiot." Anderson adds as they join Mycroft in his game. "Leave them _alone_!" Sherlock shouts again, dashing the jars from_ _Mycroft's hands, glass breaking, scattering everywhere. Flames dance in the shards._

_His brain is on fire. He _screams_, but it doesn't help. It makes it worse, the illogical phantoms coming to harass him further. Half his mind is intent on producing things that make no sense, the other half trying to justify them. Absolute irrational torment. And then, suddenly, it's gone. And he wants, no, _needs_ more. He doesn't know why and it scares him. But he just _needs_ it. He reaches for the syringe… _

BANG. _He stumbles, clutching his abdomen. Blood. So much blood. Pain. He can deal with pain. Except this time, he can't. He's _alone_, and that's scarier than the blood and the overwhelming agony. His breath catches in his throat as he starts sobbing, drowning in tears that he can't wipe away. Drowning in the pool where Carl Powers died…_

_John. _John is Moriarty._ The betrayal hits him like a fist in the gut, stealing his breath and heart at the same time. How could he have been so _wrong_? No. No no no nooooooo… _

_No. It's much worse. Moriarty is insane and John is wearing a bomb and Moriarty is pressing the button and John goes up in flames and he's _screaming_ and Sherlock's trying _trying_ to run to him but his feet won't move and John's pleading for Sherlock to shoot him with his own gun just to make it stop please make it stop and Sherlock does it because John, dear John, has never asked for him to do anything in his life and he crumples oh it hurts it hurts and he's sobbing and his father is cursing him for being _sentimental_ and the bullies are jeering 'freak' and Moriarty just laughs and laughs and laughs… _

Sherlock sits bolt upright in his bed, shaking. He takes a shuddering breath. Then another and another until he can function. Sort of. His hands are quivering and he hopes John won't notice. _John. _His trembling fingers reflexively clutch the sheets. He reminds himself that John is fine, Moriarty has gone to ground and John is sleeping like a baby on the couch after watching crap telly all night. Not exploded, not burning, not shot. _Perfectly fine_.

Sherlock tries taking a shower. Not good. _He's drowning in tears, drowning in the pool…_ He's hardly wet before he jumps out again.

He opens up his closet. Not good. The rows of suits and dress-shirts remind him of Mycroft, of their father… _Pathetic. Can't even get dressed without becoming sentimental. Weakling._ Ignoring the sardonic voice in his head, Sherlock throws on his dressing gown and walks to the kitchen.

Maybe he can get some experiments finished so he can clear the counter so John will stop whining… Not good. Jars of samples line the counter. _Jars of scowling heads_. No. They are just fingers from the morgue, Molly said he could borrow them… _Molly. Betrayal_.

Sherlock rushes from the kitchen, almost running into John. _John._ The heart he isn't supposed to have twists violently in his chest. Sherlock can't even look at him. Not right now. He dashes to the window and starts playing his violin like his life depends on it.

_Why_ had he let John talk him into going to bed early last night? He _knew_ he wasn't tired enough. He purposely forgets how lovely it was to snuggle up under the covers, how peaceful it was to drift off to sleep instead of crash-land into oblivion.

Oblivion. _John, collapsing onto the tile, still burning, face peacefully oblivious to the bullet in his forehead. The one he asked for and Sherlock gave._ His trembling fingers fumble a note and he _feels_ John notice. Sherlock _never_ fumbles notes. Not by accident, at least.

He lays down the violin. Can hardly even do _that_, he's in such a state. He's so angry at himself. _Why_ can't he control this! He can stare serial killers in the eyes and laugh at gory crime scenes but give the great Sherlock Holmes a nightmare and he's reduced to a quivering mess! He growls, pacing the room. John's not exactly staring, but he is. It's annoying. Why can't people just leave him _alone_!

_Alone. Bleeding to death in an alleyway._ Sherlock stops pacing. No. He doesn't want to be alone. But he doesn't want to be with people either… _Freak. Psychopath. Idiot._ He throws himself into his chair and stares at the ceiling. Nothing threatening about a ceiling. Sherlock tries to escape in his mind palace. It doesn't work.

John walks over with a cup of tea. What _is_ it with that man and tea? It's not the elixir of life or anything, it can't cure anything. Sherlock can't bring himself to look at his flat mate's face, but can tell by his posture that he's going to ask a question. He _can't_ let that happen, because if jumper-wearing, weapon-bearing, oh-so-caring _John_ asks the question Sherlock knows he'll ask, he won't be able to keep up the all-important façade. So, feigning disinterest, Sherlock moans "_Bored_," in the way he knows John hates, fidgeting in his chair to hide the tremors in his hands as John dumps the tea on the table.

What he really means is "_Help me_".


End file.
